


On Surviving the Apocalypse

by lumateranlibrarian



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, and apparently Bilbo can't tell the difference between buildings, in which there are students, zombie tag AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5867380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumateranlibrarian/pseuds/lumateranlibrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're insane!"</p><p>"I disagree!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Surviving the Apocalypse

Thorin was not expecting a person to fly through his open dormitory window on the second floor, land on his dirty laundry pile, and crash sideways into a desk. Nor was he expecting said person to be carrying a brightly-colored Nerf gun, although in retrospect he supposed it made sense.

 

It would have been less embarrassing if he’d been wearing something other than (only) a pair of briefs. But the smallish person didn’t seem to notice, spluttering and stumbling to his feet before sprinting back to Thorin’s window. The person leaned out, cackled, and yelled “Ha! Suck on  _ that, _ Gamgee!” Then he fired off two foam-cylinder shots and swiftly ducked beneath the sill.

 

Throughout the whole thing, Thorin had frozen in shock, and now he slowly reached for the nearest pair of jeans. He stared at the intruder, and the intruder stared back.

 

For a long moment, the intruder squinted up at him through a tangle of honey-brown curls. He glanced around Thorin’s room before coming to an obvious conclusion. The intruder cleared his throat. “Right. I seem to have chosen the wrong building to come climbing into. This is not Drogo’s dorm room.”

 

“Lowell Hall, I take it?” Thorin said blankly. He noticed the bright purple bandanna tied around one of the intruder’s upper arms.

 

“… Yes…” the intruder hedged. He took in Thorin’s bare chest and shoulders and immediately turned bright red. “So very sorry about that. Zombies. Dangerous business. I’m going to leave now.”

 

“You do that,” Thorin told him, and let the guy show himself out.

 

 

 

It happened again four days later, when Thorin was sitting on his bed with a computer in his lap.

 

“What the hell?” he exclaimed as a certain someone tumbled from the tree branch, through the window, and into Thorin’s laundry.

 

The intruder shot straight up in alarm at Thorin’s voice. His eyes landed on Thorin—thankfully fully clothed this time—and he pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “ _ Why _ does this keep happening?”

 

“You could always go in the front door. By the sign that clearly says  _ Afton Hall _ instead of  _ Lowell Hall,” _ Thorin advised.

 

The intruder glared at him. “That’s where they  _ wait _ for you. I’m planning on surviving, thank you very much.”

 

“Survive the apocalypse  _ outside _ my room,” Thorin growled.

 

The Intruder gulped loudly, and slunk out of Thorin’s room just as Dwalin—Thorin’s cousin and roommate—appeared in the door. The Intruder and Dwalin stared at each other, a good foot in height between their heads.

 

There was an awkward pause before Dwalin looked over the Intruder’s head to Thorin. “And you said you didn’t have a type,” Dwalin snorted, gesturing at the Intruder.

 

“He should be so lucky,” the Intruder scoffed, and ducked under Dwalin’s elbow, loading a foam cylinder as he left down the hall.

 

Thorin threw a sweaty sock at Dwalin’s head before returning to his assignment.

 

 

 

The Intruder—Thorin didn’t have any other name for him—started showing up everywhere: at the dining hall, outside the library, and once, in a particularly odd (although not entirely unexpected) circumstance, curled up in the high branches of an oak tree outside of the Engineering building holding Thorin’s calculus lecture. Thorin noticed that he was always surrounded by the same group of friends wearing purple bandannas around their arms. As the semester went on, however, there appeared to be less and less of them.

 

Surviving a zombie apocalypse appeared to be quite the undertaking.

 

 

 

Thorin was in the middle of giving his little sister a tour of campus when a horde of the undead crossed the street several meters ahead of them.

 

“Don’t ask,” he snapped before Dís could form the words. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

 

He caught sight of a slightly chubby brunette in the middle of the zombie pack, and recognized him as one of the boys who would commonly hang out with the Intruder. On impulse, Thorin searched the group as it passed them for the familiar face, but the Intruder was still alive, it seemed.

 

“Yes, that’s Drogo.”

 

Thorin jumped, spinning towards the voice behind them, and Dís smirked.

 

“Well, if you could be less obvious about it,” the Intruder huffed. “He knows all my hiding places, so if you don’t mind, please stand shoulder to shoulder for the next thirty seconds and I’ll be in the clear.”

 

“Are you always this bossy?”

 

“Only when my life is on the line. Now, if you please?”

 

Dís giggled as she obliged, moving after a moment when Thorin barely altered his trajectory. The Intruder gave an exaggerated grunt of surprise, and looked accusingly at Thorin.

 

“And who is this lovely young woman?”

 

“That’s  _ my sister,” _ Thorin growled.

 

“Yes, and I’m gay,” the Intruder retorted, and he raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Thorin blinked.

 

In a truly breathtaking (and highly suspicious) moment of tact, Dís did not remark on this remarkable coincidence. Instead, eyes gleaming, she turned around and smacked Thorin on the shoulder. “You’re an idiot. I’m perfectly capable of turning down a flirt without your help. I’m Dís.”

 

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Bilbo. And you are?” the Intruder asked charmingly, and Thorin realized belatedly—how had he  _ not _ realized this?—that after two months and several disturbingly close encounters, this was the first time he’d ever heard the Intruder’s name.

 

“I’m Thorin,” he grumbled. “Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

 

 

In the end, Bilbo didn’t make it.

 

It was a dramatic affair that Thorin had the pleasure to be a part of, not that he would ever admit it in the weeks to follow. He never found out whether or not Bilbo had planned it, but going out with a bang  _ was _ Bilbo’s style.

 

It took place on a cold morning near the end of the semester. Thorin was looking for a waste bin to toss his empty coffee cup into, ducking his head into his collar in an attempt to shield himself from the frigid wind.

 

The sound of shouting and thudding feet made him glance up warily. Sure enough, there was a horde of zombies running towards him. More accurately, there was a horde of zombies running after  _ Bilbo, _ who seemed to be running towards Thorin. There was a wild grin on Bilbo’s face.

 

Thorin frowned darkly at Bilbo. “Now,  _ don’t—” _

 

Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s hand and began dragging him down the sidewalk. “They’re after me!”

 

“I can  _ see _ that,” Thorin growled. Bilbo was practically  _ sprinting, _ and Thorin stumbled the first few steps before falling into stride. “Why am I going with you?”

 

Bilbo laughed hysterically. “Thorin, if they get you too, I’ll never forgive myself. Once you’re bitten, there’s nothing we can do. You’ll turn into one of them!”

 

If Thorin hadn’t been concentrating on not falling flat on his ass over a patch of ice, he would have glared. “You’re taking this game really seriously, aren’t you?” he huffed.

 

Bilbo somehow managed to point a finger at him breathlessly. “This _ is _ serious!”

 

“You’re insane!”

 

“I disagree!”

 

“You do know that I’m  _ not _ actually a part of this game?”

 

“Details!”

 

Still pursued, they ran across a small parking lot between two buildings. A thought occurred to Thorin. “They won’t actually bite us?”

 

Bilbo laughed before tugging him behind a dumpster so that they could catch their breath. “No,  _ that’s _ against the rules. Hand contact to the shoulder, arm, or back counts as a bite. No head-shots allowed from either humans or zombies, once a human is tagged they have sixty seconds before you switch teams, and… what else? Right. If a zombie is hit, they have to wait fifteen minutes before being active again.”

 

“Huh,” Thorin considered. His breath clouded in the air in front of him, mixing with Bilbo’s. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

 

Bilbo looked up at him with a pleased and startled smile. “Next year, you—”

 

He was interrupted by a victorious, nearby-sounding shout.

 

“I found him!”

 

Thorin flinched and Bilbo cursed, but it appeared to be too late to run. “We shouldn’t have stopped,” Thorin growled, surprised by his sudden investment in Bilbo’s fate. He placed himself in between Bilbo and the four approaching students. Behind him, Bilbo exhaled angrily as the zombies—two girls and two boys—cornered them against the dumpster.

 

“Give it up, Bilbo,” the girl in front cackled. “You’re surrounded, and human shields don’t count if they’re not part of the game.”

 

“Bilbo, you should run,” Thorin hissed, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing right now.

 

“Thorin, no,” came the quiet voice from behind him. “It’s my time.”

 

Thorin turned around and crossed his arms. “You’re not serious.”

 

“Much as I hate to admit it,” Bilbo grumbled, “she’s right. I would never use you as my human shield.  _ She _ would, without hesitation. But not me. I couldn’t.” The shorter man grimaced, but Thorin didn’t miss the spark of mirth playing around Bilbo’s eyes.

 

The girl sighed, and tapped her foot. “Hurry it up, Baggins.”

 

Bilbo huffed at her, and sidestepped Thorin. Thorin caught his arm.

 

“You’re just giving up?”

 

“I know when I’m beaten,” Bilbo mourned. “Thorin, I want you to remember me as I was.”

 

“Insane?”

 

_ “Determined.” _

 

Thorin gave him an unimpressed glare, and Bilbo seemed to take that as a cue to continue.

 

“It was this apocalypse that drew us together. I wish we had met before, but now I have to go. Our time together was all  _ too brief—” _

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the girl snapped. She darted forward and tagged Bilbo by thumping him open-palmed on the shoulder. “Sixty seconds. I want to win this challenge.”

 

Bilbo gaped furiously. “You—you utter, _ absolute— _ I am  _ dying _ here, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and I’ll be damned if you get the better of me during my own death scene!”

 

Thorin choked back a snicker at Bilbo’s expression, but managed to smooth his face over with what he hoped was appropriate concern for a dying companion during the zombie apocalypse.

 

Bilbo squinted up at Thorin suspiciously, then gathered himself.

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, and clutched Thorin’s arms. Thorin blinked. “I want you to  _ live. _ Find the cure. Kill the zombies.  _ Especially the one that got me. _ I’m serious about that.” Bilbo frowned up at him suddenly, and poked his finger towards Thorin’s nose. “Very serious.”

 

Thorin nodded solemnly. He had a strange urge to giggle that he quickly and ruthlessly eliminated. Bilbo paused in thought.

 

“Remember me… wish we’d met sooner… kill zombies. What else?”

 

Thorin’s forehead creased. “What was that second thing?”

 

“Oh!” Bilbo gasped. He poked a stern finger at Thorin’s nose. “And if you ever reveal  _ any _ of my hiding places to  _ anyone, _ I will personally rise from the grave to turn you myself.”

 

Thorin couldn’t help it. He grinned broadly, and held up his hands in defense. “Whatever you say.”

 

“Good,” Bilbo sniffed. Businesslike, he nodded crisply. “My time has come. Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

Thorin snorted. “See you, Baggins.”

 

A strange expression stole over Bilbo’s face. Thorin waited expectantly as Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, and was disappointed when Bilbo bit his lip, and shook his head with a faint smile. Thorin began to speak, but then stopped. He had no idea what he wanted to say.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s  _ absolute _ sake!”

 

Both Bilbo and Thorin startled at the girl’s screech. Unimpressed, she put her hands on her hips and glared at Thorin.

 

 _“We,”_ she enunciated slowly, with obvious gestures, “are getting _drinks_ on _Friday_ to celebrate _._ _You_ are going to meet _him_ there—” she pointed at Bilbo “—and comfort him when we make known what a loser he is for getting his ass caught not one week before winning the whole damn game.” She smugly crossed her arms, and smirked at Bilbo. “And now, _you_ owe me.”

 

Bilbo, every visible inch of him glowing red, huffed at her. “Oh, and what do you want? Precious metals? Family heirlooms? My ancestral home?” He caught Thorin’s eye, and Thorin couldn’t help but crack a grin.

 

He supposed he could get used to being around Bilbo Baggins.

**Author's Note:**

> Formatting. How does it work?
> 
> (slumps forward onto desk with muffled swearing)


End file.
